


A Secret Told to the Mouth Instead of the Ear

by cuddles



Series: I Don't Even Like You [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Drunken Kissing, First Kiss, M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-19 15:25:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16537205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddles/pseuds/cuddles
Summary: Aziraphale doesn't even like Crowley. No, really.(In other news, I wrote fic for a TV series that isn't even out yet, inspired by the trailer.)





	A Secret Told to the Mouth Instead of the Ear

**Author's Note:**

> It seems like the TV series' characterizations are going to be pretty different from the book's. So I took a stab at depicting TV!Aziraphale -- easily flustered and agonizing over his feelings for Crowley.
> 
> I would have included the "I don't even like you" scene from Aziraphale's point of view, but I don't know where it fits chronologically.
> 
> Translation into Vietnamese by mellowyellow171: https://mellowyellow171.wordpress.com/2019/06/21/oneshot-good-omens-a-secret-told-to-the-mouth-instead-of-the-ear/

Aziraphale could never tell for sure through the sunglasses, but it seemed to him that Crowley was often watching him. They would be sitting in St. James's Park -- rather companionably, if an angel and a demon could be said to be _companions_ \-- and as they talked, Crowley would turn that dark gaze on him. It made Aziraphale self-conscious.

Maybe talking to Crowley so regularly was a mistake, he sometimes thought. He and the demon were supposed to be discussing the youthful Antichrist. They weren't supposed to be talking about Mozart and Haydn, or rhapsodising over their favourite sushi chefs, or arguing once again over who had started a minor battle in the Hundred Years' War.

It had been a decade now since they'd made their pact, and over the years Aziraphale had begun looking forward to these meetings more than he ought.

"What if we've failed?" Crowley asked suddenly one day. They were sitting on their favourite park bench. They'd been on a tangent about the finer points of fugu preparation, so the question came out of nowhere.

Aziraphale blinked at him. "You mean with young Warlock?"

"Yes. If the scheme doesn't work, we've only got one more year for ... this." Crowley made a vague hand gesture that seemed to encompass the lake, the ducks, the clear blue sky, and even Aziraphale himself.

They were silent for a while. When Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley, he saw that the demon was watching him again.

Then Crowley leaned over and touched his lips to Aziraphale's mouth.

Aziraphale's breath caught. Crowley pulled away, but he still seemed to be looking Aziraphale in the eye, still studying him. Then the demon gave him a little smile -- a smile that seemed bizarrely incongruous after the massive shift in reality that had just occurred -- and stood and walked away.

Aziraphale didn't know how long he had been sitting there frozen, staring in the direction Crowley had gone, before he finally formed a coherent thought: Crowley had kissed him. Crowley had _kissed_ him. Crowley had --

His hand rose to his lips of its own volition. Warm, he thought. Crowley's lips had been warm. Aziraphale had always thought serpents --

His brain ground to a halt again. _Crowley had kissed him._

Absurd fragments from books shot through Aziraphale's mind: _A match burning in a crocus._ _Un secret qui prend la bouche pour oreille._ And fragments from the past, as well: Judas approaching Jesus in the crowd. Cleopatra watching Mark Antony eat a pomegranate seed.

It was a long time before Aziraphale stood up and went home. Later, when he had tried and failed to distract himself by rereading a favourite book, it occurred to him that Crowley's smile had been _sad_.

***

The next time Aziraphale saw Crowley, the demon acted as though nothing had happened, so Aziraphale was forced to do the same. Several times, he was on the verge of saying something stern about demonic wiles and how utterly inappropriate it would be for Crowley to try to tempt him into -- well, whatever it was Crowley wanted to tempt him into. But when he looked at Crowley, the words died in his throat.

He couldn't seem to _stop_ looking at Crowley. Staring, even.

He didn't get up the nerve to say anything until the night after they'd realised they had the wrong Antichrist.

They'd both had far more wine than they'd intended, and were sitting on the sofa in the back room of the bookshop. Crowley's head was resting on the back of the sofa, and Aziraphale mimicked his posture, finding it rather comfortable. He noticed suddenly how close the two of them were. When he turned his head to face Crowley, his nose almost brushed the demon's ear.

"Why'd you kiss me?"

The question came out without any conscious thought on his part. He was too drunk even to want to take it back.

Crowley shifted position so they were facing each other, noses a few centimetres apart. He pulled his sunglasses down to reveal his eyes. Those captivating slit-pupilled eyes.

"Because I wanted to." Crowley's voice was just on the cusp of slurring. He held Aziraphale's gaze.

Aziraphale stared back at him through a haze of wine and confusion. His mouth opened to ask another question, but he couldn't seem to pin down what he meant to say.

For a long moment they stayed like that, still and silent. Then Crowley took off his sunglasses altogether, shifted his face closer to Aziraphale's, and kissed him. Again.

It was different this time. It took Aziraphale several seconds to realise he was kissing back. His kisses were messy, wet, desperate, and out of sync with Crowley's. By contrast, Crowley was uncharacteristically gentle and restrained.

After a few moments, the demon pressed his forehead against Aziraphale's to give them a breather. Aziraphale was almost panting as he pushed forward and kissed Crowley hungrily again and again. He couldn't get enough.

Crowley's hands settled on his waist and Aziraphale made a small sound in his throat. He didn't recognize himself at this moment. He only knew he wanted Crowley's hands on him, warm and gentle and --

Then those hands were on his shoulders, pushing him away, holding him just at arm's length. Aziraphale blinked at him blearily. Where had Crowley's sunglasses gone? he wondered. The demon's vertical pupils were dilated.

"Sober up." Crowley stared him in the eye. Aziraphale stared back.

Without consciously willing it, Aziraphale reached up and touched Crowley's face with both hands. His fingers crept to Crowley's neck and tried to tug him forward, but Crowley didn't budge.

"Sober up," said Crowley, "and I'll kiss you again."

Aziraphale felt like he had slammed into a brick wall. The wine was making the room spin in slow cartwheels. He looked into Crowley's beautiful eerie eyes and licked his lips and felt something like panic.

"I can't," he whispered.

Aziraphale shut his eyes so he wouldn't have to see Crowley's reaction. The room was still spinning behind his eyelids. Part of him wanted to do what Crowley asked, but another, much larger part of him was screaming _NO NO NO_.

He felt Crowley's hands release his shoulders, then the shift in the sofa cushions as Crowley got up. He opened his eyes. Crowley was shrugging on his suit jacket.

"Where're you going?" Aziraphale blurted out.

"Home." Crowley patted his pocket for the keys he didn't, technically, need. "G'night, angel."

"Wait." Aziraphale staggered to his feet. He cast about for words. "'M sorry." Though he didn't know what he was sorry for.

"I know." Crowley glanced at him and Aziraphale saw he had his sunglasses on again. His face was unreadable as he said, "Me too."

Then he was gone, the shop door jingling shut behind him.

Aziraphale found himself back on the sofa, head in his hands, eyes burning. His fingers were damp with what he discovered, after a few moments' puzzlement, were tears.

**Author's Note:**

> "A match burning in a crocus" is from Mrs. Dalloway (1925), by Virginia Woolf. The French quote is a line from Cyrano de Bergerac (1897), by Edmond Rostand, and rather loosely translates to the title of this fic.


End file.
